


Everything

by genee



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-29
Updated: 2004-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lance feels like he's waiting for something, except he has no idea what that something is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything

Lance really _is_ writing songs, just like he said in all those interviews. And if he isn't writing for the next NSYNC record, it's only because these aren't NSYNC songs, no matter what Justin likes to say about the evolution of the group's sound. Or whatever. Because maybe Lance isn't sure what these songs are, or if they're any good, but he knows they're everything to him, even if they are pretty simple, melodies he can pick his own way through. Soft words and easy chords and they aren't country and they aren't pop and he really doesn't know what to do with them now that they're here. It's like they're waiting for something, like _he's_ waiting for something, only Lance has no idea what that something could be.

He thinks he should have expected this, should have known he wouldn't be able to pour himself into this celebrity lifestyle and just leave all those years of music behind, but he didn't. These songs, they're a surprise to him. A thrill, too, feeling them in the shadows, sudden and so sweet it's hard to believe they're really his. Sometimes, he sort of wishes they weren't.

He asks himself what he'd tell someone else to do, tries to be all level-headed about it, but he can't quite get enough distance to see the situation clearly. He never could really, not for himself, although honestly, asking for Jesse's opinion maybe wasn't such a good idea, because really, what else is Jesse going to say?

"Well, they're your songs," is what he says, leaning close, whiskey lips and warm skin and silky muscles underneath. "So, they're all? Uhm. You. And, dude, you _know_ I like you."

"Yeah, I _know_ ," Lance breathes, grinning into Jesse's kiss, because of course he knows, he knows exactly, like he knows Jesse's chest will flush dark and hot and his breath will catch and this is all so far against the rules, Jesse's one of his _employees_ for god's own sake, but it's not like Lance is about to pass this up, either.

It's too good, Jesse's too good, strong and soft and it's been a long time since Lance has actually _wanted_ somebody they way he wants Jesse, not that Jesse's anything like Chris, he's not, and he never will be, and right now that just makes him all the more appealing. He nibbles his way down Jesse's neck, across his collarbone, tasting salt and heat and smooth, sweet skin, and Jesse gasps, slides his thumbs around Lance's hips and drops to his knees, pulls Lance's jeans open with his teeth and, god, no, Jesse is nothing like Chris at all.

Jesse is simple and uncomplicated and he blows Lance with something like devotion, fucks him like it's going out of style and he lets Lance look and look and look, as much as he wants, taste and touch and he never pulls away from Lance's hands, from Lance's eyes, never tells Lance _no_ or _later_ or _grow up_ , never says much of anything that doesn't also mean _yes_ and _more_ and _please_.

**. . .**

There was a time when Lance thought that if anybody was going to understand what he was asking for, it would be Chris, always Chris, but he was wrong about that because he asks, and Chris doesn't even call him back, won't even send his voice that far, just drops a postcard in the mail from somewhere that's not here with a message on it Lance can't even pretend he might need help deciphering.

 

> > _Stand the fuck up, kiddo. It's time.  
>  Love you always,   
> Chris _

It means what it means, and Lance knows Chris well enough to know that, but still. It hurts. Hurts that Chris loves him and hurts that he doesn't, not in the way Lance wishes he did, in the way that means Chris misses the same things Lance misses, not just Chris and Lance but the five of them, even if that's not what he's asking for now, with these songs. He's asking for Chris, Chris's voice and Chris's style and just, _Chris_. Chris, and not the postcard version but the real thing, although the postcard is pretty classic Chris, really, and Lance turns it over in his hand, a desert market, dried chili's and sombreros and brightly colored blankets, dark skin and open skies, little kids all barefoot and playing in the dust. Lance wonders if he should have seen this coming, Chris's need for distance, his need to be on his own, finally, after so many years of taking care of everyone else.

**. . .**

If Jesse reminds him of anyone, it's Joey, because Joey thinks Lance is wonderful, no matter what. Joey's always there for him, smiling and laughing and handing Lance his daughter, all wrapped up in pink and white, trusting him with everything precious in his life and there's no way Jesse even comes close to that, no way he ever could, but Jesse's here all the time now and Joey's not, and Lance thinks that's just the way it goes.

Still, Lance thinks of Joey more and more, how strong he is, how brave, and he thinks maybe Joey's the one to ask, just this once, because these songs are as much about friendship as they are about anything else, and nobody knows more about friendship than Joey. Besides, Joey's always had a good ear and Lance needs to know how his songs sound in someone else's head, needs it almost more than he needs to feel Joey's arms wrapped around him, holding him close, smiling bright and laughing like goodbye isn't always a week away.

"Joe," Lance says, a little breathless, nervous, and he remembers the day he met Joey, and Joey's eyes are just the same. "Say somethin', man. What do you think?"

But Joey just pulls Lance into his arms and swings him around, whooping and grinning and Lance isn't sure what it means, exactly, except that Joey loves him, loves him like no one else loves him, warm and true and there's nothing Lance could do that Joey wouldn't love, wouldn't be proud of or stand behind and Lance knows that, feels Joey's heart beating against his, cotton and skin and the soft scent of no-more-tears shampoo.

"Beautiful," Joey tells him, finally, and Lance breathes in the sound of it, the feel of Joey this close, and Lance wonders why in world he thought to ask Joey for anything else, because this _is_ Joey, and Lance doesn't ever want this to change.

**. . .**

He thinks JC will understand, and he does, sort of, smiles so soft and lazy, listening, the sound of Lance's voice and his guitar and Lance knows JC remembers teaching him to play, long days on the road and nothing to do but learn and breathe and taste, the fine grain of JC's skin under his fingers, under his tongue, the pale sheen of his bare skin, waxed and oiled and Lance used to love to spread him open and lick him clean, Chris's shadow like running lights, showing him the way.

JC still looks like the boy he used to be, his feet dangling in Lance's pool, happy and open and completely unsurprised, and Lance thinks, _finally_ , relief like a rainstorm, warm and sweet in the afternoon sun. "You like the songs, C?"

"I do," JC says, his fingers tracing through the warm water on the deck, splashes from earlier, both of them in the pool, goofing around, sweet tea and sandwiches waiting in the shade. "They're you, cat. They're all you."

Lance nods, because they are him, these songs, but he doesn't know what else they are and he's never been here before, not all alone anyway, not like this. "C?"

"Yeah, cat?"

Lance watches JC watch him, both of them bare to the waist, swim trunks in every size in Lance's pool house, and Lance thinks of Jesse now, the way he tastes, salt and chlorine and how much he likes swimming in the mornings, before Lance wakes up, before he's officially on the clock. "I don't know what to do now."

"Sure you do, honey," JC says, stretching as he stands, his eyes crinkling in the sun, slits of shining blue that are nothing like the sky. "You just don't want to do it."

**. . .**

Justin smiles and Lance smiles and the space between them shimmers for just a minute, bluegreen and open and Lance is pretty sure it doesn't belong there, he's pretty sure it doesn't belong there at all. He thinks he should have called Justin first, doesn't know what he was thinking, just waiting for Justin to show up on his doorstep at god knows what time of the morning, all tension and long legs and shadows in his eyes.

Justin stares at the postcard on Lance's fridge while Lance looks around for something that's almost like breakfast. Justin stares and mumbles to himself, five minutes, ten, and then he pulls it down and reads the back and stares some more. Lance hands him fresh coffee, light and sweet and Justin tosses the postcard on Lance's counter, pulls another one from his back pocket, and it's the same as Lance's except Justin's is a sunset over open water, soft colors and fading light and a small boat in the foreground, bobbing in the waves. Chris's scrawl across the back, familiar and shocking and still, Lance's heart skips a beat, flutters in his chest when he sees it.

 

> > _J,  
>  Listen to this cd, and please, get over me already. Fuck.  
> It's way past time.  
> Love,   
> Chris _

Justin's practically buzzing beside him, humming one of Lance's songs under his breath, sweet and soft, and Lance can't believe Chris did this for him, can't believe Chris did this for him _again_. He feels himself blushing and he knows he should say something now, do something, but he just doesn't know what.

He hears JC's voice in his head, _Sure you do, honey_ , and he really wants to believe. Lance presses a kiss to Justin's cheek, scratchy stubble and smooth skin underneath and he thinks maybe this is what he's been waiting for after all. He scoops up both of their postcards and sticks them back on the fridge with an old NSYNC magnet, braces and braids and platinum blond babies, and Justin giggles a little, says, "Yeah, take that, fucker," and wraps his arms around Lance from behind, so strong, and Lance laughs out loud, leans into Justin and closes his eyes.

"Chris sent you my songs, huh?"

"Yeah," Justin says, his breath tickling Lance's ear. "They're good, man. You shoulda sent them to me yourself, though."

Lance shifts a little, but Justin doesn't let go. "That's the thing, J," Lance says, turning in the tight circle of Justin's arms, wanting to see him now, pink lips and flushed cheeks, and Lance just wants to _look_. "These songs just happened, and I love them, I do, but I never wanted to go solo, you know? I don't want to do any of this myself."

"I know," Justin says, smiling again, one hand skating up Lance's back, fingers in Lance's hair, tilting his head, and Justin's smile tastes like home, coffee and sugar and so much music underneath. "Ask me to stay and you won't have to."

Of course it's Justin who understands, Lance thinks, _Justin_ , the boy who was practically born in the spotlight, but Justin's all grown up now, or almost all, anyway, and Lance has his own guitar string calluses now, words and music and songs still hidden somewhere inside. "Okay," Lance says, and Justin's hips press closer, twist a little like he thinks Lance might need some convincing. "Nice," he breathes, tasting the curve of Justin's shoulder, tendons and muscle and Justin flexes, twitches maybe, and oh, "Very nice."

"Are you gonna ask me?" Justin whispers, and Lance knows he's serious, knows that it means something to Justin, to hear him ask, and Lance wishes they were somewhere besides his kitchen, wishes he had something to give Justin besides these few words, but at least the sun is rising now and Justin looks gorgeous in this light, gold and blue, and Lance thinks maybe it's enough.

"I am," Lance says, sliding his fingers through Justin's curls, kissing his cheek again, just the press of his lips, shadows and memories and Justin makes a soft sound, impatient. Trace is getting married and Jesse moved out three weeks ago and maybe Chris always knew this would happen, but it still surprises Lance, the way it makes him feel, finally, the way Justin needs this as much as he does, maybe more.

"Will you stay, Justin?" Lance asks, and Justin smiles like he didn't know it was coming, blushes, and Lance knows he's blushing, too. "Record these songs with me, write new ones, all of that?"

"Everything," Justin says, and the way he sounds, Lance wants to mark him, strip him bare and just fuck him right here, kiss-swollen lips and sore muscles and Lance wants to be marked, too, Justin's taste in his mouth and Justin's scent all over his skin.

"Everything," Justin says again, pressing closer, Justin's hipbones like every wish he's ever made and Lance isn't sure if he wants to thank Chris or smack him, because god, Justin doesn't need to work this hard, but it's beyond hot that he actually thinks he does.

"Everything," Lance breathes, Justin's pulse under his lips and Justin's hips twisting, harder, and this has Chris written all over it, scrawled in black ink and prettier than any postcard, but Lance knows Justin means it just the same. He thinks about how much _everything_ really is, about the way he feels right now, Justin in his arms at sunrise, both of them making promises and it's such a thrill, so unexpected and wonderful and there's no one else he'd even want this with, no one else who even comes close.

   
   


\-- End -- 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a documentary about Jim Croce, as strange as that sounds, and by a dream I had after watching it, the sounds of which just wouldn't me let go.


End file.
